


i forge myself

by sagesprouts



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Cults, Found Family, Government Experimentation, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Reluctant Hero, instead of using the perfectly good ones that kyoani already gave us, no superheroes just superpowers, watch me build personalities for all of the irrelevant characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 04:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21488230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagesprouts/pseuds/sagesprouts
Summary: I am iron and I forge myself.Nanase Haruka has never wanted to be the hero of any story. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't really matter what he wants.
Relationships: Kirishima Ikuya/Tono Hiyori, Kirishima Natsuya/Serizawa Nao, Matsuoka Rin/Yamazaki Sousuke, Nanase Haruka/Tachibana Makoto, Shigino Kisumi/Shiina Asahi
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	1. PROLOGUE I

**Author's Note:**

> This AU has been an incredibly long time coming, and let me just say I am _ridiculously_ pumped about it.
> 
> There's a [soundtrack playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5pD6xLR5Q4food233ZtFOf?si=jfLYTyXaShS0OzQ36JP1JA) on Spotify, if you're interested, and it will likely update every so often (aka whenever I find good songs to put on it).
> 
> And a huge shout out to [Soph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isugou) for the hours of idea-exchanging, character analysis, plotting, editing, and general all-around encouragement. This fic would not exist without you, and I am eternally grateful to you for helping me make this concept into a reality.

_When you're ten, they call you a prodigy. When you're fifteen, they call you a genius. Once you hit twenty, you're just an ordinary person. _

It’s a nice thought, at least, but despite his wishes otherwise, Nanase Haruka has long since resigned himself to the fact that it will never be true. He will never be allowed to just be ordinary.

**8 Years Ago**

“Come on, Haru-chan!” Makoto calls to him from the edge of the ocean, the surf lapping at his feet.

Haru, a much slower runner than Makoto, has only just reached the sandy banks that slope down towards the water. Makoto’s recent growth spurt has made him stronger and faster than Haru now, a change which they are both still adjusting to. 

“Lay off the -chan,” he calls back, jogging across the beach, but Makoto can’t hear him. As he approaches the water, he dumps his bag and his clothing in a haphazard pile next to the one he recognizes as Makoto’s without stopping his trajectory towards the ocean, kicking off his shoes as he goes.

The moment he crosses the threshold between land and sea, it’s as if the chill of the saltwater greets him and beckons him further in, the soft waves wrapping themselves around him and welcoming him home. Despite experiencing the first steps into the ocean more times than he can count, it’s a feeling that has never once gotten old. Makoto is still only knee-deep in the waves, timidly navigating further from the shore, and Haru catches up to him quickly, walking gracefully through the water as if it’s even more natural than walking on land.

“Haru-chan!” Makoto says again, but this time Haru doesn’t bother to correct him. “Doesn’t the cold bother you?”

“Why would it?” Haru asks, and Makoto laughs, his whole face lighting up with the action. 

Haru slows down now, walking beside Makoto and matching his cautious pace. Makoto may be faster than him on land, but Haru has always been much more comfortable in the water than on solid ground. He watches Makoto shiver slightly, staring intently at the ocean floor as if to ensure it won’t disappear entirely between each careful step.

“You have to trust the water,” Haru explains to him, because the sooner Makoto understands this, the sooner the two of them will be swimming together, and Haru is already impatiently yearning to venture further out and leave the shoreline behind.

At this, Makoto freezes - his whole body tensing up for a brief but unmistakable moment. 

“H-huh?”

“The water is alive,” Haru continues, wondering how much more clearly he could possibly explain this. “Swimming is like a conversation with it. So just trust the water.”

“Ah,” Makoto replies, clearly not as receptive as Haru had hoped. “I think maybe that’s something you understand better than I do.”

Haru frowns slightly, frustrated with both Makoto’s inability to understand and his own apparent inability to explain, but Makoto just smiles softly at him in response.

“You go ahead,” Makoto tells him. “I’ll catch up with you.”

The two exchange a quick glance - _ are you sure? _ Haru’s expression asks, but Makoto’s reassures him _ I’m fine, I promise _ \- and, satisfied with that, Haru adjusts his goggles over his eyes and submerges himself completely, gliding gracefully forward.

Ten minutes or so later - when Makoto is still wading, the water nearly reaching his chest but his feet still firm on the sandy ocean floor - Haru begins to notice that something isn’t right.

He feels it before he can see it. The water is nervous, restless, waves crashing together with an increasingly frantic energy despite the clear sky and the stillness of the air.

“Makoto-“ he calls instinctively, but Makoto is frozen in place. The turbulent waves aren’t coming from the direction of the horizon, he notices. They are coming from the direction of Makoto, standing still and staring at his hands in terror.

The other beachgoers are beginning to pick up on the ocean’s strange behavior now too, calling their children back to dry land or inching towards the shore themselves, and Haru doesn’t think twice before he takes action. Long powerful strokes carry him quickly towards Makoto, and in the back of his mind he notices that, despite the crashing waves and erratic split-second changes in the current, the ocean is not fighting his progress.

He grounds his own feet on the ocean floor once he reaches Makoto, and the water that reaches Makoto’s chest submerges Haru’s smaller frame up to his shoulders.

“Makoto!” he says again, calling out to his friend despite standing directly in front of him. 

He receives no response. Makoto stares straight through him, shaking noticeably and taking quick shallow breaths.

Haru braces himself for what he’s about to do. It’s only happened a few times before, never around other people and never on purpose, but it’s as if there’s a sixth sense guiding him. He takes Makoto’s hands in his own and allows something inside of himself to unconsciously shift, giving permission for the benevolent energy to radiate outwards from where it has been building inside of him.

A glow, faint at first but steadily building stronger, emits from his hands at the points where they make contact with Makoto’s, and as it brightens, the wild waves around them begin to calm and quiet. Makoto’s rapid breathing begins to level out. He blinks once, twice, and his eyes finally meet Haru’s. The water ripples gently around the two of them, and stills. 

Tears well up in the corners of Makoto’s eyes, and it’s barely a few seconds before his knees buckle and he collapses into Haru’s waiting arms, sobbing.

The two of them stumble up the stone staircase to Haru’s house, Haru weighed down with both of their bags and clothing, Makoto passively allowing himself to be dragged along by the hand, both of them barefoot and out of breath.

Haru throws open the door, helping Makoto to the living room before briefly stepping out to unload their belongings in the hallway. The moment Haru lets go of his hand, Makoto crumples into a heap, and when Haru re-enters the room he joins him on the floor, crouching down beside Makoto and placing a comforting hand on his back as he begins to cry again.

“It’s okay,” he tells Makoto, willing his voice to sound as soothing as possible. “Nobody got hurt, and nobody saw.”

Makoto sniffles, looking at Haru again, eyes wide.

“I’m scared,” he says, in a soft voice that makes him sound years younger than he really is. 

“I know,” Haru says, keeping his tone even, “but it’s okay. I won’t let anything bad happen. I promise.” 

Makoto sniffles again, but visibly relaxes. Haru shifts into a more comfortable sitting position and Makoto clings to him as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world, halfway curled up in Haru’s lap and resting his head against Haru’s chest. 

They sit like that for a while, wordlessly, and Haru registers the midsummer sun sinking lower in the sky, stretching the shadows longer across the room.

“Haru-chan?” Makoto says, so quiet that Haru can only just make out his words.

“Hmm?”

“What did you do, back there?”

It’s a good question, and Haru doesn’t entirely know how to answer it. This thing is a power, he remembers his mother telling him three years ago, after he explained how the glowing light made a stray cat’s broken paw all better again. It’s very rare and special, she said, but that’s why it needs to be a secret. That was fine by Haru - he has never been one to talk about himself any more than necessary.

“It’s a power,” he says simply. “And you have one too.” 

At this, Makoto whimpers.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Haru continues. “Mine fixes things that are broken, I think.”

“It felt like a bad thing... Mine, I mean,” Makoto clarifies quickly. “I don’t want it. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“No one got hurt,” Haru tells him again, but he just shakes his head.

“But they could have,” he explains. “I think I’ve felt something strange happening for a little while now, but today…” He pauses, looks at Haru with a curious expression. “How long have you had yours?”

Haru shrugs. 

“A while. Four years?”

“_Four years?” _ Makoto repeats, astonished. “Haru! Why didn’t you say anything about it before?”

Haru considers the question. His mother _ had _ told him to keep it a secret, but that wasn’t the reason. He doesn’t keep secrets from Makoto.

“It never came up,” he says truthfully. 

Makoto sighs.

“At least yours can’t hurt anybody,” he says, quiet again. “Mine is scary.”

Haru shakes his head because, in his opinion, Makoto’s power isn’t scary at all. He doesn’t say this to Makoto, who is still obviously distressed about the whole thing, but Haru thinks that it fits perfectly. 

It makes sense, he thinks, because water and Makoto are the two things that he likes best in the world, and so of course they go together. They both feel _ safe_. Those very first steps into the ocean, he realizes, invoke the same sensation he gets when he sees Makoto’s smile - the feeling of being _ home_.

When Haru’s mother arrives home, she joins the two of them on the living room floor, and - with Makoto’s permission - Haru relays the events of the day.

“Haruka, Makoto,” she says - stern but caring - once Haru finishes his story, “I need you both to understand how important it is to keep your powers a secret. There are people whose job it is to study powers like these, and they would be willing to take you away from Iwatobi, your family, and each other if they thought it would help them.”

Haru nods solemnly, but Makoto looks nervous.

“Can’t my family know?”

“Don’t worry,” she reassures him, “I’ll explain everything to your parents. But it might be best to keep this from Ren and Ran. They may be too young to understand.”

Makoto nods too, more hesitant.

“Is there any way to get rid of this?” he asks, timid, and Haru’s mother looks at him with sympathy.

“I’m sorry, Makoto-chan. It’s something that you’ll have to live with and learn how to control. But,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially, “I want to make it clear, to both of you, that your powers are a gift.”

Haru has heard this speech already, and while his powers don’t exactly feel like a gift, he does acknowledge that he had been lucky to have them today. Makoto, hearing this all for the very first time, listens with his eyes wide. Haru remembers his grandmother’s quote about being ordinary, but he says nothing. He understands that Makoto needs to hear this right now.

“I know it’s hard to be different,” his mother continues, “but please remember that being different makes you special. You can do things that very few other people can, and when the time comes, you may be able to use your powers to help in ways that others aren’t able to. They are a blessing, not a curse.”

Makoto, though clearly still confused and scared, nods again. 

“Will you two be okay waiting here while I go over to see the Tachibanas?”

“We’ll be fine,” Haru says. 

“Alright,” she says. “I won’t be too long.” She stands up and makes her way towards the door, but turns around before exiting the house. “Makoto-chan, your parents and I are going to make sure that nothing bad happens to you, okay? We’ll keep you and Haruka safe.”

Haru places his hand on top of Makoto’s and squeezes it as if to tell Makoto that he’s here, that he will always be here. That he will keep Makoto safe too. 

Makoto continues to stare straight ahead, but he turns his hand over to fit into Haru’s and squeezes back.

* * *

**5 Years Ago**

The hallway of the Shimogami Institute medical wing is bright - overwhelmingly so, with the persistent buzzing of the lights overhead as the only ambiance - and Ryuuji sits with his head in his hands, shielding his eyes against the glare.

“Makarovich-san,” says a woman’s voice, and Ryuuji looks up to see her standing in front of him, tense and skittish like a small animal. He doesn’t need to look at her face or hear her next words to know the news she’s come to deliver.

Everything is slow, out of sync, underwater. 

“No,” he hears a voice, sounding raw, pained, and realizes that it’s his own. 

She says something else now, he thinks, but he can’t hear her anymore. He doesn’t remember making a conscious decision to move, but he notices that his hands are now clenched around fistfuls of fabric from her white smock.

“You have to try,” he pleads. His voice is disembodied, coming from somewhere outside of him, desperate and hoarse. “You have to try something else, _ you have to-“ _

“We’ve done all we can,” she says.

_ It’s not true it’s not true it can’t be true- _

Another doctor is standing next to the first one now, and he puts a hand on Ryuuji’s shoulder. Ryuuji didn’t notice him approaching. He says something. They’re both speaking, actually, but nothing they’re saying is registering.

“He’s a civilian,” Ryuuji protests. “He wasn’t supposed to get involved with anything here, I never meant for him to…” He shakes his head, violently, as if trying to jar himself loose from this version of reality that’s obviously deeply _ wrong. _

He’s drowning. He can’t breathe.

“I needed to protect him,” he says, weaker now. “I _ need _ to protect him.”

The doctors are still talking. Ryuuji can’t hear them.

“He’s not gone,” he says, and repeats it over and over to himself as if it were a prayer. 

_ He’s not gone he’s not gone he’s not gone he’s not- _

It’s two days before Ryuuji finds himself able to eat anything, three before he’s finally exhausted enough to collapse into an uneasy sleep.

He takes to resting on a worn-out couch in the break room rather than going home, occasionally slipping into brief fits of unconsciousness but more often just staring through the window ahead in a daze as the sky fades from bright to dark and then back to bright again. If he doesn’t go home, it doesn’t become real. If he doesn’t acknowledge the passing of time, time has not passed.

His research assistant, Yamazaki Kazuma, takes pity on him by the fourth day, reasoning with him in the same tone that one might use with a stubborn child. Ryuuji allows Kazuma to guide him to one of the institute’s empty dorm rooms to have a shower, and he stands listlessly under the torrent of hot water until he hears frantic banging at the door accompanied by a panicked voice informing him that he’s been in there for over an hour. 

When Kazuma places a tray in front of him, containing a bland cafeteria sandwich and a small box of milk, Ryuuji doesn’t protest. He mechanically takes a bite of the sandwich, and then another. It feels like dust in his mouth, tasteless and inedible, but he chews and swallows anyway because it’s the path of least resistance. 

Kazuma is speaking now, but his words blur together unintelligibly until something in Ryuuji’s mind faintly registers the words _ funeral arrangements_, and the sandwich he was eating feels less like dust now and more like cement. He puts it back down on the table, lowering his head down beside it.

“-been difficult for you,” Kazuma continues, “but there are some things that need to be taken care of. For Mikhail’s sake.”

“He’s not dead,” Ryuuji says. It’s the first time he’s spoken since the day in the hallway, and his voice is scratchy from disuse.

His eyes are closed, but he can feel his assistant’s expression of pity pressing down on him, so heavy in the air that it nearly feels tangible.

“I’m sorry,” Kazuma tells him, using that tone again, and Ryuuji says nothing. He’s moments away from collapsing into himself like a sinkhole, empty on the inside with nothing left to hold him together.

Eventually it becomes clear that Kazuma won’t be deterred, and so Ryuuji absently signs off on some basic arrangements if only to bring an end to the conversation.

The wake is scheduled for two days later, and Ryuuji doesn’t go. If he doesn’t go, it isn’t real. He sits in the empty dorm room that has become his temporary residence, imagining what Mikhail’s reaction must have been when friends and family arrived at their apartment, dressed in black and ready to mourn for a person who was standing right there, still alive. 

The room is stark white and entirely devoid of character. Ryuuji sits on the bottom bunk, his back against the cold brick wall, and for a moment he pictures his cozy apartment with its well-worn furniture and walls full of photos and shelves overflowing with Mikhail’s ever-growing collection of kitschy knick-knacks. 

_ It’s not real it’s not real it’s not- _

At some point, day shifts into night. Ryuuji doesn’t recall closing his eyes, but suddenly he’s blinking awake, rubbing his eyes as Kazuma briskly enters the room.

“Get up,” Kazuma tells him, and he passively obliges, stumbling out of the room to go stand in the shower again until he is instructed to get out. Just like before, he allows the water to wash over him, motionless.

Unlike before, the clothes laid out for him are not a purple and white institution-issued sweatsuit; instead, he finds a crisp black suit and dress shoes waiting on the unmade bed. He makes no motion to dress himself.

“I understand it’s been a trying time,” Kazuma tells him, stern, “but this is for your own good. I respect you too much to let you act in a way you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

Ryuuji stares at the suit and says nothing.

“You’re going to the funeral,” Kazuma says.

_ You’re packing lunch for a thousand, _ Mikhail sometimes says, shaking his head as Ryuuji sits with his head buried in a book at the breakfast table or lies awake in bed, engrossed in scrolling through a research paper on his phone. 

_ That’s not a real saying. It doesn’t mean anything, _ Ryuuji tells him every time, to which Mikhail will usually respond with _ well maybe it should be, _ and _ you know exactly what I mean. _

What Mikhail means, Ryuuji knows, is that Mikhail thinks he is taking on too much, spreading himself too thin between his work and his research. What Ryuuji hates is that his husband is probably right. Ryuuji has always been this way, even before he and Mikhail met back in grad school - he’s the sort of person to take on as much as he can handle and _ then _ some - but his work at the institute has taken this tendency and amplified it to its worst degree.

He _ has _ been spread too thin.

_ Packing lunch for a thousand. _

It’s such a Mikhail thing to say. Most of the things he says make very little comprehensible sense, and when they were first getting to know each other, Ryuuji had driven himself crazy trying to figure out if it was frustrating or endearing. Somewhere along the way - possibly when the phrase _ we’ll cross that bridge and eat it too _ showed up in the wedding vows - he had come to understand that it’s both, obviously, in equal measure.

In the passenger seat of Kazuma’s car, Ryuuji fidgets with the buttons on his suit, his restless energy hitting him even harder after the week of inertia. He keeps adjusting the radio dial, over and over, jumbling fragments of lyrics into comfortingly nonsensical phrases until Kazuma swats his hand away.

It’s twenty minutes into the funeral service before it finally _ really _ hits him. 

He makes it through stilted conversations with friends and family, both his and Mikhail’s, teary-eyed and offering their condolences. It’s not real, none of it is real.

It’s not real until it _ is. _

Ryuuji is staring at a photograph - one that he had taken seven years prior while the two of them were vacationing in Paris, a candid shot of Mikhail pointing at something in the distance, laughing as the wind whipped at his hair - and all at once the illusion shatters. The ground falls out from underneath him.

Mikhail is dead, gone.

_ Mikhail will never be alive again. _

He looks around. There are photos, so many photos, so many moments frozen in a time _before._ This is the _after_, now, he realizes. There is no going back.

The air is thick with incense and grief, and Ryuuji can’t breathe. Someone has a hand on his shoulder, and he slaps it away with force. 

He’s choking. He’s drowning. He rips off his tie, unbuttons the collar of his shirt, but it’s as if the air itself is thin, sparse. It’s as if everything good, everything _ alive_, left the world along with Mikhail.

People are staring. He’s making a scene, probably, but he can’t summon the energy to care. In fact, it’s all the more upsetting that nobody else seems to understand the sheer hopelessness of the situation.

“He’s _ gone,” _he hears himself shout through sobs. Another hand is on his shoulder and this time he shrugs it off violently. 

He can’t be here.

He can’t be around these people who seem to think it’s possible to carry on like everything is normal. Nothing will ever be normal again. Don’t they understand that?

He’s collapsing, combusting, going out of his mind. He walks fast, letting his feet carry him with no conscious destination. There is nowhere in this world that he can imagine might bring him peace, nowhere that could possibly calm the raging storm inside of him.

He finds himself standing in front of his apartment building, for the first time in a week. _ He’s not in there_, he reminds himself, and another intense wave of grief crashes against his chest.

There is nowhere that Ryuuji _ wants _ to be right now, aside from back in a time _ before_, but suddenly he has an overwhelming _ need _ to be home. The only real thing left in this world is the life that he and Mikhail has built together, and now that he’s here, standing in front of the building, the idea of ever leaving the apartment again sounds ridiculous, unfathomable. There is nothing left out here that could ever feel as solid anymore.

As he approaches the building, Ryuuji notices a pile of fabric placed directly in front of the door, but upon closer inspection, it seems to be a teenager. The kid looks young and exhausted, definitely no older than fourteen, sitting slouched in the entranceway and wrapped in a hoodie several sizes too big. Maybe he’s lost? It doesn’t matter. 

Nothing matters anymore.

“Move,” Ryuuji snaps, because right now the only thing he has it in him to care about is the fact that this child is blocking the entrance.

The kid stands up slowly, looking Ryuuji directly in the eye and somehow looking straight through him at the same time. He’s a foreigner, with white blonde hair and translucently pale skin, which only adds to the surreality of his presence.

“Makarovich Ryuuji,” he says in a soft voice, and something in his tone makes Ryuuji’s blood run cold. 

_ Makarovich_, a reminder that a part of him is missing forever now, his other half. Ryuuji’s hands involuntarily curl into fists. He’s aware of his wedding ring sitting cold and heavy on his ring finger, grounding him like an anchor.

“That’s me,” he manages through his teeth. “What do you want?”

The strange kid takes a step towards Ryuuji, and then another. His movements are unnatural, stilted. It would be incredibly unnerving if Ryuuji could bring himself to care in the slightest.

He stops a few paces in front of Ryuuji. Something about him appears older now that he’s standing up, and it’s not only that he seems tall for his age. There is a weariness that rests in his face, and Ryuuji briefly feels guilty for his impatience towards the boy, but the guilt only lasts until the boy opens his mouth and speaks again.

“The funeral was today,” he says, conversationally. Ryuuji is barely able to hold himself back from taking a swing at him with his already clenched fist.

“Who the _ fuck _ are you?” He searches his mind desperately for any memory of this face, this voice, and comes up empty-handed. _ “What the fuck do you want from me?” _

The kid is smiling, in theory, but something is deeply _ wrong. _ It doesn’t look like a smile. In fact, it barely looks like any intelligible human expression at all.

“Oh no, Makarovich-san,” he says. He somehow manages to make Ryuuji’s own name sound like a taunt, a threat. “This is about what you want.”

“There’s nothing that I want anymore,” Ryuuji snarls, close to his breaking point. “I don’t give a shit about whatever you’re selling. Now _ move.” _

He attempts to push his way past, but the kid is much stronger than he looks. Quicker than Ryuuji can register, there an arm against his chest now, blocking him from moving forward. The kid is directly in front of him, his eerie purple eyes focused all wrong, staring at something that doesn’t exist.

“You want your husband back,” he all but whispers. His words are quiet, barely there over the hum of the city, but the force of them nearly propels Ryuuji backward.

He sees red.

He’s shouting now, slamming his fist against the wall of the building. Maybe his words make sense, but it’s more likely that they don’t.

_ He’s gone. Mikhail is gone. Mikhail is- _

“It’s easier if I show you,” he hears the kid say from somewhere within his haze of rage, and feels two cold fingers press against his forehead, right between his eyes. He blacks out instantly.

_ Everything is dark. Everything is pitch black until it isn’t. He sees- no, senses, something indescribable before him. An infinite number of eyes that are not really eyes, teeth that are not really teeth, nauseating colors that should not exist and that he can’t begin to conceptualize. _

_ Calmer than he should be, it occurs to Ryuuji that he may in fact understand what is happening. He waits. _

_ He hears - senses - a sound, a voice. It is discordant and shrill in a way that would give him a headache, he realizes, if he had any concept of his own physical form right now, but he does not. _

** _MAKAROVICH RYUUJI._ **

_ He has no way of responding, but doubts that the entity before him particularly cares. _

** _YOU HAVE MEDDLED IN FORCES BEYOND YOUR UNDERSTANDING. AS YOU WELL KNOW, THERE EXISTS FOR US NO CONCEPT OF MERCY._ **

_ He vaguely understands that he should be terrified right now. He may have been, a week prior to this. _

** _YOU ARE A FOOLISH, STUBBORN MAN. BUT FORTUNATELY FOR YOU, YOU CAN OFFER US THAT WHICH WE SEEK. IN EXCHANGE, WE OFFER YOU THAT WHICH YOU SEEK._ **

_ Mikhail. _

** _WE HAVE THE POWER TO BRING ABOUT HIS RETURN. BUT YOU MUST UNDERSTAND: IT WILL NOT BE WITHOUT A PRICE._ **

_ Before he can process its words, he’s enveloped in pitch black nothingness once again. _

Ryuuji opens his eyes, and the sunlight is horrible, blinding. A few seconds later he remembers he is not alone, and he squints against the light of day as he watches the kid blink himself back to lucidity as well, clearly disoriented. 

He looks young again now, as he takes in his surroundings. Ryuuji feels a sudden and intense impulse to protect this child. When he turns to look at Ryuuji, he’s clear-eyed and present, and it seems as if he’s only now seeing Ryuuji for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. It’s the same soft voice as before, but somehow he sounds like an entirely different person.

Before Ryuuji can reply, the kid flinches hard, bringing a hand to his own forehead. He makes a small pained noise, sways dangerously back and forth for just a second, and promptly collapses onto the pavement.

* * *

**1 Year Ago**

Ikuya hates the Shimogami Institute cafeteria. 

He hates the fluorescent lights, he hates the uncomfortable chairs, the terrible food, the onslaught of sensory input, and more than anything else he hates sitting alone in silence, forced to listen to the conversations occurring around him, feeling like an outsider.

He sets his tray down at an empty table, examining the day’s meal: a simple fried rice dish, slathered in sauce that he knows right away he won’t like, even before tasting it. It only takes one forkful to prove his assumption right, so he pushes the bowl away and focuses on dessert instead - an oatmeal cookie he would describe as passable at best. It’s dry and entirely unsatisfying, but the prospect of finishing the rice seems insurmountable.

Up until two years ago when Natsuya aged out of the institute’s youth program, he didn’t have to worry about this. But now, without Natsuya around to speak for him, it’s harder. Ikuya doesn’t know exactly what’s wrong with himself, only that his anxiety has a tendency to take on a life of its own without much warning - even when doing something as simple as asking for a meal modification - and often so intensely that he has to take a sedative and go lie down to make it stop before something bad happens.

It occurs to him that he’s out of sedatives again, and he reminds himself to ask Kazuma for a refill tonight.

Things didn’t used to be quite so bad. Ikuya has never really had _ friends_, not like most of the other institute kids who easily manage to fall into cliques within a few days, but at least he hadn’t felt quite so pathetic and helpless back when Natsuya and Nao were still under the care of the institute too. It wasn’t exactly like having friends - or what he assumes it must feel like to have them - but it had been enough. It had been something.

“You should really be eating more,” he hears someone say, and looks up as Nao pulls up a chair across the table from him. 

It’s Wednesday, Ikuya realizes, which means that both Natsuya and Nao are working tonight. Old habits die hard; he can’t help but feel safer with the two of them are around. (Not entirely _ safe_, really, but with powers like his, safety is an illusion at best. He takes what he can get.)

“I don’t like the sauce they used,” he mumbles in protest, to which Nao responds with a skeptical look.

“Did you ask for it without?"

He shakes his head, and Nao sighs.

“Ikuya,” he scolds. “You know they would make some without if you just asked.”

Ikuya shrugs.

“I’m not very hungry,” he half-heartedly explains, and changes the subject before Nao can get on his case any further. “Where’s nii-chan? He’s supposed to be working today too, isn’t he?”

“He’s…” Nao pauses for a moment, collecting his words before continuing. “He’s out on work-related business.”

Ikuya eyes him suspiciously, hoping he’ll elaborate, but Nao remains cryptic.

“I can’t say anything more than that, Ikuya. It’s not that I don’t want to, but... you know I can’t give you special treatment.”

Ikuya pouts. It’s been a few years since Natsuya and Nao both went from being in the care of the institute to being employees, but Ikuya still isn’t used to the shift in dynamic that came with the change.

“Is it dangerous?” he asks, pressing for more information regardless. Nao sighs.

“It’s-“ he closes his eyes, rubs at his temples. “He’s safe. Please don’t dwell on this.”

Something occurs to Ikuya.

“You’re not supposed to know either,” he accuses. “Are you?”

At that, a brief hint of surprise blooms over Nao’s features, before he catches himself and rearranges his expression into a tired-looking but slightly conspiratorial smile.

“Maybe I know a little bit more than I should,” he confesses, “but it’s only so that I can be sure he’s not doing anything reckless, so let me worry about all of that, okay? You just worry about finishing your dinner.”

Ikuya knows that Nao is probably not supposed to be using his clairvoyance to keep track of Natsuya’s whereabouts, but he also knows that anybody else employed by the institute would be much less upfront about any of this, so he just shrugs again and grumpily takes a second bite of the now cold rice.

He can feel Nao still looking at him intently, and it’s not dissimilar to how he imagines it might feel being underneath a microscope.

“Come to think of it,” Nao says, “Natsuya did mention that you haven’t been eating much lately. Have you been feeling alright?”

He makes a small noncommittal noise in response. Evidently that was not the right answer, because it makes Nao frown a little.

“Natsuya and I may not be around as often as when we were in the dorms, but that doesn’t mean we’re not just as concerned about you now as we were then.”

“It’s Hoshikawa’s job to babysit me, not either of yours,” Ikuya says. “He’s the one getting paid for it.”

He expects that to get a reaction, and he’s not disappointed. Ikuya watches with mild amusement as Nao stifles what is likely a cold and concise retort, the type that he might have directed at nearly anyone else at the institute, instead sighing deeply and raking a hand through the strands of silver hair that have shaken themselves loose from the confines of his low ponytail.

Ikuya sticks his tongue out like a child and waits for Nao to notice.

“Ikuya, you know that’s not-“ Nao notices almost immediately, and pauses to give Ikuya a pointedly unimpressed look. “You’re getting to be just as difficult as your brother, aren’t you?”

“No,” Ikuya says, deadpan. “I’m worse.”

“Unbelievable,” Nao says, but at least he’s no longer frowning anymore, or scrutinizing Ikuya with an expression full of concern. “I swear, the two of you can be such a handful.”

“Good thing you’ve got two hands.”

Ikuya isn’t feeling better now, necessarily, but the exchange does serve to momentarily distract him from the worst of his worry. He decides to appease Nao, if only temporarily, and make another attempt at dinner. 

He manages to finish nearly a third of it, picking at the tofu and vegetables but leaving the majority of sauce-covered rice at the bottom of his bowl, and Nao gives him a nod of approval for his efforts. He watches as Nao stands, briefly leaving the table and returning a few minutes later with a matcha pudding cup and a sly smile.

“These are a Friday dessert,” he says as Nao slides the pudding across the table. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Nao sits back down across from him, radiating professionalism with folded hands and proper posture. 

“What happened to no special treatment, Serizawa-sama?”

“There’s nothing in the code of conduct that forbids rewarding good behavior,” Nao replies with a once again straight face, though Ikuya can still see hints of the smile from earlier in his eyes.

“That’s Hoshikawa’s job too,” Ikuya says, already halfway through peeling the lid off of the dessert.

“Oh well. I won’t tell if you don’t either.” 

The pudding cup is much more exciting than the fried rice had been, and Ikuya can’t help but begrudgingly admit that maybe he _ is _ a little hungry after all. Nao waits for a moment as if to ensure that Ikuya actually intends to eat the dessert, and then pulls out his phone. Something on the screen makes him frown again, and he begins typing quickly, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I’m sorry Ikuya,” says Nao, abruptly standing up from the table. “Something came up, and I have to-“

“Is it about Natsuya?”

Nao’s expression is tense and unreadable. He’s nervous, distracted. It’s making Ikuya nervous too.

“I have to go,” he says, and takes off towards the door, leaving Ikuya alone once again.

Ikuya doesn’t remember a life before the institute. He and his brother grew up here, and it was much easier to forget his own friendlessness with Natsuya around to keep him company, swiping extra desserts for him while the cafeteria staff weren’t looking or staying in Ikuya’s dorm room after lights-out to read him bedtime stories.

He’s too old for bedtime stories now, though, at nearly eighteen, which is fine because Natsuya isn’t around often enough to read to him anyway. Alone in his room - one of the only occupied units in the single-occupancy hall - he moves through his nightly routine in a daze. Today was a particularly rough day of training, which always has the effect of putting him on edge, and on top of that, he’s spent all evening getting increasingly anxious about the whereabouts of his brother. 

He hasn’t been able to calm down since his conversation with Nao, the restless sense of dread pressing down on him and clouding his thoughts, but he knows that no one is going to give him any answers. No one ever tells him anything. It makes him feel so helpless. Truthfully, almost everything about the institute just makes him feel like a bug trapped under an opaque glass, waiting to have his fate decided by forces outside of his control. He wonders if it feels any different for Natsuya and Nao, being on the other side of things, now. He’s never thought to ask.

It’s not until he’s in bed, making a futile attempt at the mindfulness exercises he’s _ highly encouraged _ to practice, that he realizes he forgot to take a sedative. He’s out, he remembers. He ran out of them last night. With everything distracting him, he forgot to request a refill. 

There’s no way he’s going to avoid the nightmares in this state - he can barely manage a decent night of rest at the best of times - and so he drags himself out of bed again, annoyed at his own forgetfulness. He hastily pulls on a sweater and some shoes, quickly exiting his room in an effort to make it to the medical wing and back before lights-out.

When Ikuya had first started complaining about the nightmares as a young child, no one aside from Natsuya paid him much mind, being more focused on the dangerous, destructive, and seemingly inexplicable blackouts he was prone to. Natsuya had pushed the issue - Ikuya didn’t dare bring it up again himself - but it wasn’t until much later that anything actually came of it.

It was eventually Nao, already on familiar terms with the researchers due to the side effects of his own powers, who ended up being the one to convince the institute staff that something needed to be done. Ikuya was introduced to Kazuma, the assistant to the medical researcher taking on his case, and soon after that, he was handed a little purple container of pills that he was instructed to use as liberally as needed.

For the most part, they work. They make him feel groggy and spaced out, a side effect that Kazuma has been working to fix in the years since his promotion to researcher, but Ikuya doesn’t particularly care. As long as the pills can take away the nightmares and the explosive outbursts of his powers - powers which, despite having trained longer and harder than almost any of the other institute kids, he still struggles to control - he’ll take the brain fog without complaint. 

Sometimes it’s nice, even, allowing his thoughts to dull and soften like rocks tossed about by the ocean. Sometimes, like right now, he craves that feeling.

The medical wing is on the other side of the institute - past the common area and cafeteria, the offices, and the training grounds - and although lights-out isn’t for another hour or so, accounting for the time that it will take to prepare everything, Ikuya knows he’ll just barely make it back in time.

The common area is still packed full, and it’s almost unnerving to Ikuya as he leaves it behind and enters one of the quiet hallways lined with offices. His footsteps echo within the sterile white expanse, and he can’t help but wonder why anyone would choose to come back here voluntarily once they’re allowed to leave. A lack of options, maybe, or possibly just Stockholm Syndrome. He’s never really thought about his own life post-institute either, if he’s being honest with himself. He can’t even conceptualize it.

Because of the eerie quiet and stillness of the hallway, Ikuya nearly yelps when a door bursts open a few feet in front of him. Terashima - who Ikuya vaguely recognizes as one of Natsuya’s colleagues - exits, clearly in a hurry. Sugimoto, one of the Institute’s directors, follows briskly after.

_ It’s about Natsuya_, a little voice in Ikuya’s head says, and suddenly all of his concerns about sedatives are forgotten. He inches closer to the now-empty office that was the source of the commotion, reading Sugimoto’s name printed neatly across the brass nameplate on the door and eyeing the doorknob, slightly ajar.

He doesn’t mean to go in, and he definitely doesn’t mean to snoop, but he finds himself doing exactly that as he cautiously sits in the plush chair behind the desk, mousing over the computer screen to find it still unlocked. The screen brightens to show an email marked **URGENT**, and Ikuya holds his breath as he scrolls down, preparing for the worst. 

He skims the contents of the email hurriedly, searching for any indication that it might be about Natsuya, but nothing catches his eye. He breathes a sigh of relief. Relaxing only slightly, he weighs his options.

Sugimoto might be back any moment, and Ikuya knows that what he’s doing is incredibly against the rules. It also might be the only way to find out whether Natsuya is safe. It’s an easy choice. He opens the menu of the computer, clicks the little magnifying glass in the corner, and types _ Kirishima _ in the search bar. If no one is going to give him and answers, he’ll find them himself. After all, what are they going to do, kick him out? Tragic.

He waits as the system pulls up results, and so far there’s nothing of interest - youth program records, the contract Natsuya signed two years ago - but then something catches his eye. 

_ Project Record 100862 (Kirishima Ikuya). _

He clicks on the file, hands shaking.

_ Project Summary: The first attempt to assess the capacity of the human body for adaptation to the implantation of genetically engineered capabilities. For the purposes of this project, the replication of Chaos Magic in- _

The paragraph continues, but he’s read enough. Underneath the project summary are charts - pages and pages of charts, detailing his eating habits, his sleeping habits, his sedative usage, his training statistics…

He can feel the impending disaster growing with his anger and distress, the surge of his powers building inside of him like water against a dam, darkening the edges of his vision. No amount of mindfulness has ever been enough to control this, and suddenly he understands why he struggles with his powers no matter how hard he trains: it’s because they don’t belong to him. He wonders how many people know the truth. Does Nao? Does _ Natsuya? _

Is that why they chose to stay here?

He’s an experiment. A project. A pawn.

He needs to leave. 

He bolts out of the office, not bothering to exit his project record, not caring anymore. The powers inside of him feel too big, too much. He knows his panic is making it worse. He has never experienced a world outside of the institute, but he can’t imagine anything could be worse than staying locked in here for another minute.

He stumbles down the hallway and through the common room, his vision tunneling and chatter from the other charges floating around his head like white noise. He just needs to get some things, he decides, and he’ll leave tonight, after lights-out. 

The doors to the dormitories swing open just as he approaches them, and Nao stands on the other side, blinking in surprise.

Ikuya storms past Nao into the hallway, nearly empty aside from the few scattered people heading to bed early. Nao grabs his arm to stop him, and he spins around, seething.

“Ikuya,” Nao says, in the calm voice that Ikuya knows he uses when he’s trying to reason with someone. “I was just looking for you. I know I must have worried you today, so I wanted to explain. Where-“

“You knew,” he accuses.

“I… about Natsuya?” 

Nao is looking at him in that way again, like he’s under a microscope, and that’s the final straw. No one is allowed to look at him like he’s an experiment anymore. He is no one’s pawn, no one’s project.

The dam breaks.

The darkness at the edges of his vision expands, clouding over and pushing him out of his own mind. 

When he slips back into consciousness, alarms are blaring. Most of the few people in the hallway are gone now, aside from Nao - who is on the phone, panicked - and two of the few people who had been on their way to the dorms. Matsuoka Rin, blindly readying himself for a fight with lightning sparking at his fingertips, and Kazuma’s younger cousin, Yamazaki… something. Ikuya can’t remember his name. The one with invulnerability powers. He’s scolding Matsuoka, gripping his arm hard.

Ikuya doesn’t want a fight. He just wants to leave. He’s blinded by his anger and fear and the overwhelming weight of powers that he is not supposed to have. Everything goes dark again.

The next time he surfaces, he briefly catches a glimpse of Yamazaki stepping protectively in front of Matsuoka, and a glow that he realizes is emanating from his own palm. The alarms are still sounding, and there are more people in the hallway now, geared up protectively. Nao is nowhere to be seen.

Then, Yamazaki is on the floor. _ Sousuke_, Ikuya realizes. _ That’s his name. _ He realizes this because Matsuoka is screaming it, less like a word and more like a long and mournful cry. Yamazaki is screaming too, just howls of pain with no decipherable words attached.

_ I did that, _ it occurs to Ikuya, from somewhere outside of himself. _ That’s my fault. _

He fades out again, and the next thing he knows, he’s outside. The grass is damp and his hands are cold from scaling the wire fence. He’s never been on the other side of this fence before. He takes one last look at the institute and takes off running.

The landscape surrounding him is all countryside, dirt roads and a sky lit up with thousands of stars. Ikuya doesn’t know where he’s going, but he doesn’t dare stop. The buildings dotting the sides of the road get larger, closer together, the stars in the sky fading with the light of the city drawing nearer. His lungs are burning.

At some point, the roads switch from soft dirt to hard concrete, and the buildings are packed densely beside one another. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, or how far he’s gone. He doesn’t know if they’re coming after him, but he assumes they must be. He slows down, just for a moment to take in his surroundings, but the change in momentum is enough that he nearly feels his legs collapse from under him.

He staggers over to a bench with the last of his energy, and he’s unconscious the moment he lies down.


	2. PROLOGUE II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ikuya? Touch-starved? It’s more likely than you think.

Ikuya jolts awake in a panic, gasping for air. A nightmare, his sedatives... _ oh_. 

Bits and pieces of the previous night flood back to him, and he pulls his knees to his chest, curling in around himself. _ An experiment_, he thinks, and feels physically sick. _ A project_. 

He remembers Nao, their conversation in the cafeteria, the confrontation in the hallway. _ Does he know? _ Another thought invades his mind, and he can’t, he _ can’t, he- _

_ Does Natsuya know too? _

He pushes the thought away, presses forward in his fragmented recollection of events. He lost control, he remembers. That was why he had needed the sedatives. He realizes that he didn’t have a chance to see Kazuma, realizes that he still doesn’t have any and there’s no going back. That’s bad. That’s a problem for later.

He recalls the other Yamazaki, the younger one, doubled over in the hallway and screaming in pain in a way that someone invulnerable is never supposed to. Ikuya wonders whether he managed to survive, and realizes that there’s no way to find out, now. 

Unable to handle following that train of thought any further, Ikuya shifts his focus to the present moment. Looking around, he can tell that it’s still early morning. The sky is ablaze in hues of gold and amber and pink. The area seems mostly industrial, with smaller buildings few and far between, dotted between large empty warehouses. 

There are no people around, he thinks, but as soon as he has that thought, the air is electric with the terrifying feeling of being _ not alone_. He reflexively spins around to catch sight of a lanky figure perched on the steps of a nearby building, shrouded in shadows.

“About time,” the figure says with a voice as smooth as honey.

Ikuya notices something flashing rhythmically, a glint of light, and upon closer inspection he can see that it’s reflecting from a throwing knife that the stranger is idly twirling between his fingers in a way that appears effortless. He wears a cocky grin, and when he looks up at Ikuya, his golden eyes appear to glow.

“You were watching me,” Ikuya says, and the stranger laughs.

“Took you long enough to wake up,” he says. A chill runs down Ikuya’s spine. “Normally I’d be annoyed at you for making me wait, but I’m feeling generous today.”

He stops spinning the knife, pausing to stretch. His movements are fluid, catlike. He switches the knife to his other hand, tossing it into the air and catching it by the handle.

As he watches the stranger’s hand close around the knife handle with no hesitation, something clicks into place in Ikuya’s mind and he realizes in a flash of recognition that this person isn’t a stranger at all. Ikuya has seen him before, noticed him in passing in the halls of the institute years ago, but he was one of the ones who didn’t stay. Through the fog of his adrenaline Ikuya can’t seem to come up with a name to match the face. _ Kaito? Kenji? _

“Really, I’m pretty damn lucky,” he continues. “Here I was intending to go and waste my time tracking you down, and instead you show up on a silver platter.” He stands up, making his way towards Ikuya. 

Ikuya stands frozen in place, unable to move, unable to concentrate. His mind feels crowded and pressed tight with the energy of a power that shouldn’t belong to him. He doesn’t want to lose control. He’s still exhausted from the night before. He wishes again that he had his sedatives.

“So,” continues the man, running a hand through his shock of orange hair. “Tell me, little weapon, how much do you really know about yourself?”

Ikuya winces at the question as if it were a physical blow, struck by the weight of the revelation from yesterday - which he hasn’t even remotely begun to process yet. _ Weapon_. The word feels as sharp as the knife the man is holding, possibly even sharper.

“I’m not-”

“Don’t listen to him,” says another voice. “He’s just trying to get you to join his cult.” Ikuya whips around again to find the owner of the new voice, someone with tousled chestnut hair and thick-framed glasses who Ikuya is certain he doesn’t recognize. He wears a thick black scarf, draped loosely around his shoulders despite the lack of chill in the air.

“How nice of you to join us, Hiyo!” says the first man, the one whose name Ikuya still can’t place. “Too bad you weren’t invited.” 

The childish nickname seems to strike a nerve. There’s clearly some history here, Ikuya notes, and he wishes he hadn’t been unfortunate enough to get in the middle of it.

“Leave him alone, Kaede,” the newcomer warns, and hearing the name finally kickstarts Ikuya’s memory. _Kinjou Kaede_, he recalls. _Luck manipulation. _

Kinjou smirks in response, unbothered. He deftly twirls the knife around in his fingers again.

“Oh no,” he says, his tone dramatic and mocking. “Poor little Hiyori. Are you still bitter that I didn’t want to be best pals?” He finally readies his throwing knife like the weapon it is, focusing his attention on Hiyori and seemingly forgetting about Ikuya entirely. “You never were one to take a hint. Oh well.” He reaches his other hand into the pocket of his jacket and it emerges with several more identical knives. “Sorry that I have better things to do than make friendship bracelets with you all day.”

It’s not a conscious decision; Ikuya sees the first knife leave Kinjou’s hand, sees the glint of the fiery sunrise reflect across the metal surface for barely an instant, and the pressure in his head releases like a wave. He watches the blade fly through the air for a split second, and the next thing he knows, he’s on the ground and so is Kinjou, who only narrowly dodged the worst of the blast of magic. 

He waits helplessly for the next wave of energy to overtake his consciousness, but nothing happens. A hand is on his shoulder, he feels something shift inside of him like a lock clicking into place, and suddenly he’s back. He’s present.

“Quick,” says Hiyori, the owner of the hand that somehow subdued Ikuya’s powers, “before he gets up.” He gestures at a swirling mass of darkness beside him. The mass is shifting, sending ripples through the air around it in a way that makes it almost seem like a tear in the fabric of reality itself. _ A portal. _

Ikuya looks at Hiyori, with his strange portal and strange powers, and he looks at Kinjou, with a hand full of knives and eyes full of fury, and it’s not a hard decision. He takes the hand outstretched to him and allows himself to be guided into the rift.

To Ikuya’s surprise, the other side of the portal does not yield an endless void. Instead, he finds himself in the middle of a cozy but sparsely decorated studio apartment. 

Yellow curtains obscure the windows but still allow some sunlight to filter in through the fabric, casting the room in a soft golden glow. Stacks of books are piled up against the walls and folded clothing sits in organized piles on the floor, but Ikuya notices a distinct lack of furniture throughout the room. This setup has the unusual effect of making the apartment somehow appear simultaneously lived in and uninhabited. Hiyori guides him towards a mattress on the floor, neatly made despite the lack of bedframe, and sits down alongside him.

“Who _ are _ you?” The question tumbles out of Ikuya’s mouth almost automatically as soon as he’s seated. “What just _ happened? _ What did he want with me? What do _ you _ want with me?” He takes a breath, thinks on his next question for a moment before speaking, and it comes out quieter and more timid than the rest: “How did you stop my powers?”

Hiyori smiles, an expression that sits slightly _ wrong _ on his face and feels far too casual for the situation.

“One question at a time,” he says, and extends his hand for a proper handshake. “Tono Hiyori. And you?”

Ikuya offers a tentative handshake. “Kirishima Ikuya,” he says, before thinking to question whether or not he should be giving out his real name.

“Can I call you Ikuya?”

Ikuya considers the question. There are very few people in his life that he’s on such familiar terms with, but given that his brother might have known the truth this whole time and chosen not to say anything, Ikuya isn't entirely sure that he _ wants _to be associated with his family name right now. He eventually nods in agreement.

“Good. You can call me Hiyori.”

“Hiyori,” Ikuya repeats, testing out the feeling of the word. This earns him another smile from Hiyori, this one noticeably more _ real _ in a way that Ikuya can’t quite place.

It only takes a moment for Hiyori’s smile to drop into an expression of concern, however, and he seems to remember something, reaching for a canvas bag that sat on the other side of the mattress. Ikuya watches him rummage through it in silence, waiting for more answers, but after a few long seconds, it becomes clear that Hiyori has nothing more to say.

“So,” Ikuya finally says, starting to feel annoyed at the lack of information. “That’s your name. What about everything else?”

“Let’s worry about everything else _ after _ I deal with your injuries,” Hiyori says.

At the mention of his physical condition, Ikuya suddenly becomes aware that he has no idea how bad it is. He’s still wearing track pants and the hoodie that he had thrown on in a hurry when he left his room last night, but after a cursory glance he realizes that the fabric of both are now torn in places and stained with blood. He doesn’t _ recall _ getting injured, but he also doesn’t recall much of what’s happened over the past twelve hours, and so he sighs and removes his sweater, allowing Hiyori to examine his wounds.

As Hiyori dabs at his cuts with antiseptic, carefully applying bandages to the smaller wounds and wrapping gauze around the larger gashes, Ikuya finds himself feeling much more vulnerable than he had anticipated. It’s not that he isn’t used to having his injuries treated - back at the institute he was often subject to medical attention after his training sessions, impatiently willing himself to sit still long enough for Hoshikawa or Sagae to hastily tend to his many cuts and scrapes that seem to appear out of nowhere - but something about Hiyori’s gentle touches and thorough care makes Ikuya feel _ delicate_, as if he’s made of porcelain or spun glass. It’s almost an uncomfortable feeling, or at least a deeply unfamiliar one. 

Hiyori works in silence - save for occasional soft hums of concentration - and Ikuya can feel himself getting restless, but seeing as Hiyori is unwilling to answer any of his questions until he’s satisfied that Ikuya has been given proper first-aid, Ikuya thinks it best not to prolong the process by distracting him further. Instead, he watches the dust motes floating around in the scattered beams of sunlight that peek through the gaps in the curtains. 

_ Little weapon_, Kinjou had called him. _ How much do you really know about yourself? _ Too much, Ikuya thinks. Too much and not enough.

He searches the room for something of interest and settles on scanning the titles of the books stacked against the walls. He’s surprised to find that most of them are in English, and of the Japanese ones, he can only pick out a few that he’s familiar with: a handful of classics and a slightly smaller handful of fairytale storybooks. He’s not sure what he had been expecting.

“Almost done,” Hiyori says, breaking the silence. He takes a moment to examine his handiwork before moving a hand up to Ikuya’s face, considering how to proceed. “I can’t do much about the bruises,” he ponders, his thumb brushing lightly over Ikuya’s cheek, “but I can clean you up a little and get rid of some of the blood. Does that sound alright?” 

He looks up, meeting Ikuya’s eyes, and Ikuya looks away.

“Hurry up,” he mumbles.

Hiyori stands up, ducking around a corner into what Ikuya assumes must be the kitchen, and emerges a moment later with a damp paper towel. He sits back down on the mattress, and Ikuya allows him to wipe away the blood that’s dried around his bottom lip, across one of his cheekbones, and matted into his hair. Hiyori is precise, gentle, compassionate. 

Ikuya thinks back to his split-second decision to follow Hiyori into the unknown rather than facing off with Kinjou and his knives, and he realizes that he had misjudged things. Somehow, Hiyori’s kindness is vastly more terrifying.

Once Hiyori decides that Ikuya’s wounds are sufficiently cared for, he lays out a set of clean clothes on the bed.

“They’ll probably be a little big,” he says, retreating into the kitchen to give Ikuya some privacy, “but at least it’s something.”

Ikuya takes stock of his own clothes - a large institute-issued hoodie and a pair of track pants - and decides that big clothing is hardly as much of a problem as Hiyori seems to think it might be. In fact, on the list of Ikuya’s current problems, the way his clothing fits is a non-issue.

“So,” Ikuya says impatiently as he pulls the clean sweater over his head, “are you going to give me some answers now?”

“I can try,” Hiyori tells Ikuya from the other room. “But it depends on your questions. What do you want to know?”

_ Anything_, he thinks, but he puts on his bravest face, stands up, and positions himself at the entrance to the kitchen. There are many questions he intends to ask, but the one that ends up coming out is entirely unplanned.

“Why are you helping me?”

Hiyori stands in the middle of the tiny kitchen, tending carefully to a pan on the stove. At Ikuya’s question, he looks up.

“Because you needed it,” he answers simply.

“I don’t _ need _ anyone’s help,” Ikuya replies, standing in the doorway with his arms folded, looking as formidable as he can in borrowed clothes too large for his frame, with bruises on his face and fire in his eyes. “You heard him, didn’t you?”

Hiyori looks at him with confusion, so Ikuya continues.

“I’m a weapon. I was made to be dangerous, and I've hurt people, and I didn’t risk everything just so that I could be used by someone else.” 

He takes in the small apartment full of books, the feeling of the cozy clothing and the smell of a freshly cooked meal, and he resents it all for being close enough to touch but so wildly far out of his reach. Hiyori waits patiently, watching him with a small frown.

“So no,” Ikuya continues, “I don’t need anyone’s help, and I don’t need to owe you any favors. Whatever it is that you want from me, that’s too bad. I’m done being anyone’s pawn.”

For a beat, Hiyori says nothing. Instead, he picks up the kettle from its place on the counter and brings it to the sink, filling it with water. Ikuya wants to scream at him for acting so calm, so casual, when Ikuya himself feels like he’s losing his mind. 

He wants to storm out of the apartment then and there, but his curiosity outweighs his anger, and so he waits as Hiyori places the kettle onto another element on the stove and fusses over the egg frying in the pan, sliding it onto a nearby plate once it’s ready and then cracking another in its place. His movements are deliberate and steady. Ikuya can feel himself practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“I don’t want anything,” Hiyori says finally, and Ikuya feels both his anger and his power pressing in on the edges of his mind again. Not enough to be worrying yet, not this time, but enough that it adds to his sour mood.

“That’s not true,” he tells Hiyori. “Everyone wants something, so you can at least be upfront about it instead of…” he gestures to Hiyori as he tends to the food on the stove, and then to himself, bandaged and cleaned up and dressed in Hiyori’s clothes. 

“Instead of being kind?” 

At this, Ikuya pouts in frustration. 

“Instead of pretending to be so kind.”

Hiyori frowns a little more, looking up at Ikuya now. Steam slowly begins to billow from the kettle, and the moment feels too still, too calm for Ikuya to exist within.

“What makes it pretend?” Hiyori asks, looking Ikuya in the eyes, and Ikuya’s anger falters - but only slightly.

“Because you want something,” he eventually manages in response.

Hiyori is quiet again after that, and Ikuya is beginning to assume that his silences are because he might not be very good with words. Ikuya isn’t great with words either though, and so against his will, he finds himself acknowledging the common ground between them. 

The kettle begins to whistle and Hiyori retrieves it from the stove, carefully pouring the hot water into a little teapot. He adds the current contents of the pan to a second plate, sifts around in a drawer for some forks and knives, and reaches into one of the cupboards to retrieve a mug and a drinking glass. He hands the mug to Ikuya, along with a plate of food and a set of utensils, and walks past him into the main room. Ikuya follows.

Hiyori has already situated himself unceremoniously on the floor, and Ikuya watches as he sets his plate and glass on top of an upside-down cardboard box.

“Sorry,” he explains, embarrassed. “I don’t often have company.” 

Ikuya just shrugs and finds his own spot on the floor, leaning against the side of the mattress. He’s never even been in an apartment before, so he can’t exactly judge.

The meal that Hiyori made is simple, but significantly better than the Shimogami cafeteria food that Ikuya is used to. He hates to admit it, but he’s beginning to feel calmer now with some food in his stomach. Hiyori leans over to pour some tea into his mug, but stops halfway.

“A friend,” he says, abruptly.

“What?”

“I want a friend,” Hiyori continues, resuming his actions. “That’s the thing I want. I don’t know what you’re running from, but you don’t have to do this alone. I can protect you.”

He seats himself again, pouring what’s left in the pot into his own cup. Ikuya watches the dregs of the tea leaves float around in the clear glass.

“An ally,” Ikuya clarifies.

Kindness for kindness’ sake isn’t something Ikuya really believes in, certainly not from strangers, and _especially_ not after what he learned last night. As far as he’s concerned, it’s just another feature of the fairytales Natsuya used to read to him when they were young, just as real as unicorns or mermaids. But allyship, a shared goal or circumstance, kindness as a means to an end or as the path of least resistance... that’s something Ikuya can understand.

Hiyori looks surprised for a moment, and then smiles in that strange way again, somewhere in between real and fake.

“Sure,” he agrees, after a moment. “An ally."

The mug of tea is warm in Ikuya’s cold hands, and he sips it slowly, savoring the feeling. 

“I’m dangerous,” he clarifies again, just in case Hiyori doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation. 

Hiyori just hums and nods in response. He sips his own tea, using his sleeve as a barrier between his hand and the hot glass. 

“And so are the people who I’m running from,” Ikuya says. That seems to catch Hiyori’s attention, and he regards Ikuya with a more serious expression.

“Shimogami,” he says. 

Ikuya nods, but doesn’t elaborate. 

“I figured. We seem to have a friend in common.”

“Kinjou Kaede?” Ikuya vividly remembers the glint of unnaturally yellow eyes and the flash of sunlight on metal, and he winces. “He’s not my friend. I... don’t really have friends.”

Hiyori laughs, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. 

“No,” he says, “he’s not really my friend either.”

After they’ve finished eating, Hiyori begins to collect the dirty dishes in a neat stack, and Ikuya, with nothing else to do, finds himself at the entrance to the kitchen once again. He has the vague understanding that he should be doing something useful, and he’s aware that his years at the institute left him completely useless when it comes to both social niceties _ and _ basic household chores.

He starts to feel awkward just standing around in the doorway as he watches Hiyori wash dishes at the sink, and so he wanders further into the room to awkwardly stand in there instead. The kitchen, much like everything else in the apartment, is small and sparse, but well-maintained. Hiyori notices Ikuya enter and regards him with mild curiosity.

“You can neutralize powers,” Ikuya states bluntly, because he feels like he’s supposed to say something, and he would much rather pursue this line of conversation than offer to dry the dishes.

“That’s part of it,” Hiyori confirms as he scrubs at the pan from earlier, elbow-deep in suds. 

“And the portals?”

Hiyori nods. He wipes his hands on the nearby dish towel and turns around to give Ikuya his full attention.

“My powers are like a black hole,” he explains. “They cancel out energy and create a void. So... I’m good at hiding things. Keeping them safe.” He looks at Ikuya, serious again.

_ Keeping things safe_. 

Ikuya takes a moment, reflects on what will happen once he leaves the safety of this apartment. The institute _will _find him, he knows - there’s no question about that. Shimogami has technology, it has manpower, and it has a vested personal interest in Ikuya and his powers. They’ll find him, and when they do, he’ll be forced to make a decision. Which is worse: to surrender without a fight, or to take the risk of defending himself?

He thinks about Yamazaki, doubled over in the hallway of the institution, and the guilt comes at him suddenly and with force. _ Little weapon. _ He can feel the persistent thrum of the powers that were never meant to be his, a constant irritating headache that he’s had for his entire life, and he realizes that he is deeply and existentially _tired_.

“So you can just… make this stop?” Ikuya asks, cautiously hopeful. “You can help me control it?”

“More or less,” Hiyori answers. A flicker of an unrecognizable emotion crosses his face for a brief second, but by the time Ikuya notices, it’s already gone.

“And you can make sure no one finds me?”

“I can,” he replies, with more certainty.

Ikuya considers the things he’s learned over the past few hours. Hiyori and Kaede have a complicated history, but Ikuya is certain he doesn’t remember Hiyori from the institute. Hiyori has powers that can somehow tame Ikuya’s own, and he doesn’t seem to be worried about with Ikuya might be capable of. He owns a disproportionate amount of books and he knows how to care for injuries and he has a confusing tendency to extend compassion without any immediate reason. Ikuya has no idea what to make of him.

“Okay,” Ikuya says eventually, after weighing his options carefully. “Fine… I’ll be your ally. But I still don’t owe you anything.”

Hiyori smiles again, and Ikuya immediately recognizes this smile as one of the genuine ones. He realizes that somehow, after only a few hours, he’s already able to tell the difference. He doesn’t know what to make of that, either.

“I don’t expect anything,” Hiyori tells him, and shifts his attention back towards scrubbing at the pan in the sink.

“I don’t believe you,” Ikuya instinctively responds, but despite his apprehension, he can’t help but notice within himself the quiet beginnings of an unfamiliar feeling: safety.

**Author's Note:**

> Find us on twitter at @sagesprouts and @isugou !!!


End file.
